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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678909">Slipping Through My Fingers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied'>Sohotthateveryonedied</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Babies, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Batdad, Bruce Wayne Has Feelings, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Child Neglect, Children, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fate, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Parenthood, Smoking, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, also i changed up when bruce and duke met, because he's barely even a fetus, bruce meets all of his kids before they're HIS kids, but it's got the same overall theme so it works, fuck Shelia Haywood she's the worst, it happens differently than it did in the comics, smoking while pregnant, technically damian isn't here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:33:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678909</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce has missed so much of his children's lives—so many milestones that every parent wants to remember forever but that he’s not even had glimpses of.</p><p>He wasn’t there for the first steps or the lost teeth or learning how to ride a bike. He missed all of his children learning to talk, missed watching <i>Sesame Street</i> with them in the morning and making soapy mohawks in the bathtub. Bruce missed <i>everything.</i> He missed moments that he can’t get back, no matter how hard he yearns for a rewind. Take him back. Return to him the moments he lost without even knowing it until they’d already slipped through his fingers.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bruce Wayne &amp; Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne &amp; His Kids, Cassandra Cain &amp; Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne, Duke Thomas &amp; Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd &amp; Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>608</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Slipping Through My Fingers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've officially reached my 100th fic on AO3!!! Idk I thought it was a cool milestone so I wanted to commemorate it with an extra cute fic that I've had in my head for a long time, so I'm glad to finally be done with it.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When it comes to his children, Bruce has very few regrets. He loves them completely, scars and all. He wouldn’t want to change a single part of them.<br/><br/>But he can’t lie and say that he doesn’t regret the timing with which each of these beautiful souls entered his life. Bruce has six children, but he’s never had a baby, and isn’t that <em> wrong? </em> Isn’t that a pity? He missed so much of their lives—so many milestones that every parent wants to remember forever but that he’s not even had glimpses of. <br/><br/>He wasn’t there for the first steps or the lost teeth or learning how to ride a bike. He missed all of his children learning to talk, missed watching <em> Sesame Street </em> with them in the morning and making soapy mohawks in the bathtub. Bruce missed <em> everything. </em> He missed moments that he can’t get back, no matter how hard he yearns for a rewind. Take him back. Return to him the moments he lost without even knowing it until they’d already slipped through his fingers. <br/><br/>Bruce has a few mementos to get him by, but they only grant him glimpses of the years he missed. Dick has a bin of old tapes from the Flying Graysons’ best performances that he likes to watch on bad days. Occasionally he’ll let Bruce watch with him. There’s something magical about watching the young boy in the tapes swing on the trapeze and pull gravity-defying moves, all the while knowing what a strong man that boy will one day become. <br/><br/>Jason came to the manor with very little, having to travel light while on the streets. There’s a shoebox under the bed in his old room salvaged from his mother’s things, containing a handful of photos from Jason’s toddler years, a stuffed animal or two, some loose possessions. Bruce used to go through them after Jason’s death, just to give himself something to hold on to. <br/><br/>Tim had more than Dick and Jason combined: plenty of photos, report cards, baby teeth, and coloring books all saved in storage. But as much as there was, Bruce still only had glimpses of the real Tim. Every family photo was stiff, like an assortment of plastic dolls. The papers and drawings that have been collected are too crisp, like they were shoved into a childhood folder and forgotten about without a second glance, not even making it to the refrigerator. <br/><br/>All Bruce has of Cass’ childhood are videotapes of training sessions. He refuses to watch them, for both her sake and his own. <br/><br/>Duke has a photo album he keeps in his bedroom, compiling plenty of baby pictures and family vacations. He’s only shown it to Bruce once. Otherwise, he keeps it in his bookshelf, untouched but for the handful of times he’s visited his parents, showing them old memories in case it will miraculously jog something and put the shards of them back together. The longer it doesn’t work, the less he’s willing to tell. <br/><br/>The League of Assassins has an entire storage room of files on Damian’s development. Bruce has seen it. It’s like every move the boy made was monitored and catalogued, detailed without so much as a lick of emotion to remind anyone that this was a <em> child </em> being discussed. There were no shiny milestones to celebrate, only completed stages. No one commemorated his first word or first time seeing a butterfly, but his first time using a<em> wakizashi</em> sword earned five entire pages. <br/><br/>If Bruce could go back in time, he would snatch up every one of his children and give them the lives they deserve, right from the start. No pain. No dead parents. No neglect, no heartache, no scavenging on the streets just to survive the night. He would wipe their slates clean if it meant he could stave off their suffering, just for a little while longer. <br/><br/>He would do anything to go back.<br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/><br/>Back when Bruce was a child and tragedy hadn’t yet torn his family to bloody shreds, there was one Fourth of July on which his parents took him to the circus. Alfred had an open invitation to accompany them, but, being a Brit, he politely declined from the day’s festivities. <br/><br/><em> “I’ll have you know, young sir, that I served as a spy for the British forces and mentored Alexander Hamilton during his teenage years.” </em> <em> <br/></em> <br/>Bruce was ninety-nine percent sure that Alfred wasn’t alive during the American Revolution. <br/><br/>That day was the first time Bruce had been to the circus. It was a local one, small with very few extravagant spectacles, but his father bought him peanuts and afterward the three of them watched the fireworks in Gotham Park. It was a day that imprinted itself on Bruce’s memory, sticking with him long after they were gone. <br/><br/>So when he sees a flyer announcing that Haly’s International Traveling Circus is visiting Metropolis on the same day Bruce has an interview with Lois Lane for some column on America’s wealthiest men, how can he turn the opportunity down? <br/><br/>The air is warmed by summer rays, the entire field radiating Metropolis’ natural brightness. The scent of peanuts and popcorn wafts from all sides and the classic tinkling circus music fills his ears. The show doesn’t start for another half hour, so Bruce settles on walking around, unsure of what to do with himself. He should get some photos to bring home for Alfred. He’s always had a fascination with jugglers. <br/><br/>After some perusing, Bruce pulls up under a tree, shaded against the thick trunk. He’s just pressed send on the pictures to Alfred when he hears a voice from above. “Hey, mister.” <br/><br/>Bruce looks up to discover a boy perched on a tree branch two feet above his head. The kid looks around six years old with black hair that curls around his ears. He’s wearing a bright red and green costume—obviously one of the performers. How a child his age came to be part of the circus, Bruce can’t begin to guess. He’s missing his front teeth and his skin, tan with a honey glow, makes his nationality hard to place. <br/><br/>Bruce blinks up at the boy. “Hello.” <br/><br/>The kid drops down and catches on the branch with his hands, dangling with his bare feet kicking in the air. “Whatcha doing here?” Now that he’s paying attention, Bruce can detect the slightest accent. Romani, perhaps? <br/><br/>“Why does anyone come to the circus?” <br/><br/>The boy laughs. “You don’t look like the kind of person who goes to the circus.” <br/><br/>“Then what kind of person do I look like?” <br/><br/>The boy thinks, swinging back and forth like a cartoon monkey. How his hands aren’t scraped raw from gripping the rough bark, Bruce doesn’t know. “A lawyer, maybe. Or a president.” <br/><br/>The corner of Bruce’s mouth lifts. “I’m neither of those things, unfortunately.” <br/><br/>“Well, I’m an acrobat.” <br/><br/>“I can see that.” <br/><br/>“But I do other stuff too,” the kid tells him, “like I know how to juggle and how to walk on stilts and how to throw knives at targets. I’m getting real good at that.” <br/><br/>“Are you sure a kid your age should be playing with knives?” <br/><br/>The boy laughs. “You think knives are scary? You should see it when they let me play with the tigers.” <br/><br/>Bruce arches an eyebrow. “You play with tigers?” That can’t be safe. Maybe he should have a talk with the ringmaster and make sure someone is ensuring that no little boy heads are getting bitten off by mighty jaws. <br/><br/>“Oh yeah, the tigers are the <em> best.” </em> The kid swings his body upward, letting go of the branch and pulling a heart-stopping somersault midair as he falls. He lands on his feet without a wobble. “I know all of their names and they’re <em> huge, </em> like they’re <em> this big” </em> —he stretches out his arms as far as they will go, which makes the tigers a whopping two and a half feet tall—”and sometimes I’m even allowed to ride them!” <br/><br/>Bruce leans back against the tree trunk, crossing his arms with a smile. “Is that right?” <br/><br/>“Yeah!” The kid then launches into a string of chatter, so fast that it takes all of Bruce’s focus to keep up. He tells Bruce all about the circus’ tigers: what breed they are, how many they have, what they eat, what their names are (their actual names <em> and </em> the names the kid gave them; Marshmallow is his favorite), and how his dad once gave him permission to hold a hoop while a tiger leapt through it. <br/><br/>The entire time, Bruce can’t help but wonder, is this what childhood is supposed to be like? Swinging on tree branches and giving oral reports about your favorite animals to complete strangers? Is this what growing up is like for normal children? <br/><br/>Bruce doesn’t know whether to be envious of this little boy or concerned. He’s so <em> innocent; </em> it bleeds from every grin. There’s nothing weighing this kid down—literally <em> and </em> figuratively—and Bruce finds himself silently praying to a being he doesn’t believe in that it never changes. Let this kid stay pure, untouched by the evils of the world. Let him go his whole life swinging on branches and talking about tigers without a single setback. <br/><br/>After a good ten minutes when the boy’s tumbled into a handstand and has moved on to tell Bruce about his favorite elephant Zitka, a feminine voice rings, <em> “There </em> you are, Dick. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” <br/><br/>A beautiful woman approaches the pair, wearing an identical red and green leotard. She’s got matching black hair and blue eyes—too spitting of an image to be anyone but his mother. “Come on, sweetheart, we’re supposed to be backstage.” <br/><br/>“Sorry, Mom,” Dick says, turning right-side up, but he hasn’t lost his grin. Now that he thinks of it, Bruce doesn’t recall it waning once in the entire time they’ve been talking. <br/><br/>She takes in Bruce, suit and all, and plasters on a stage smile, sticking out her hand. “Mary Grayson. You’ll have to forgive my son, he gets excited easily. He’ll talk your ear off for hours if you let him.” But the glimmer in her eye gives Bruce an inclination that she has no problem being an audience for her son’s happy rants. <br/><br/>Bruce shakes her hand. “Bruce. I take it you’re the Flying Graysons I’ve been hearing so much about?” <br/><br/>“The very same. I hope you’ll be seeing our show tonight.” <br/><br/>“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He winks at the littlest Grayson, who beams. <br/><br/>Mary ruffles Dick’s hair. “Well, this little robin and I should be getting ready now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Bruce.” <br/><br/>“Likewise.” He leans down and shakes Dick’s small hand. “And if you ever come to Gotham, maybe you can tell me more about those tigers, eh?” <br/><br/>Dick looks like he contains the sun itself. He’s sunshine incarnate. “Definitely!” He drags his feet when his mom starts leading him away, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “Bye, Mr. Bruce!” He waves his hand like a windmill of its hinges, and Bruce can’t help but return it. <br/><br/>Bruce hasn’t felt this content in a long time to the point where he has to stop in wonderment of it. It’s unlikely that Haly’s will end up coming to a place like Gotham anytime soon, but Bruce hopes for it anyway. <br/><br/>After all, Gotham could use some sunshine. <br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/><br/>As a general rule, Bruce tries not to make a habit of getting familiar with strangers while in costume. One of the most important aspects of the Batman is his air of mysteriousness, how some are positive he’s some kind of demonic creature and others wonder if he exists at all. That was the whole point of this: instill fear into Gotham and clean up the scraps. <br/><br/>But when he spots a pregnant woman walking alone through the worst part of Crime Alley a quarter before midnight, he can’t ignore it. <br/><br/>Batman drops in front of her mid-stride on the sidewalk, cape fanning behind him like an omen. The woman yelps, jumping back. <em> “Jesus!” </em> <br/><br/>“Sorry to frighten you,” he says, making a conscious effort to dial back the gravel in his voice enough to not terrify her further. <br/><br/>Recovering quickly, the woman props her hands on her hips. A plastic shopping bag dangles from one elbow. “I’ll say, asshole. You just gave me a goddamn <em> heart attack.” </em> <br/><br/>“It’s not safe to walk alone around here.” <br/><br/>She rolls her eyes. “What are you, the chief of police? I’m walking home. Go stop a mugging or something.” <br/><br/>Okay, so she’s not a fan of Batman. That isn’t much of a shock: for every Gotham citizen who sees Batman as a protector, there are five who would love to see him crisped on a pyre. <em> Especially </em> in the poorer neighborhoods like this one, where picking up small-time crime to get by is the norm. <br/><br/>“I would feel better if you’d let me escort you home. It’s dangerous for someone in your...condition to be out by yourself this late.” <br/><br/>She crosses her arms over her swollen stomach, mouth twisting in a scowl. “In my <em> condition? </em> Fuck off, Batman. I can handle myself.” She starts walking. Bruce follows. <br/><br/>“I don’t doubt that. However, I think it would be better for both of us if I walked you home instead of bothering a police officer to do it.” <br/><br/>“Someone’s awfully full of himself. Let me tell you something, Batman.” She wheels on him, stopping him in his tracks with a finger jabbed at the symbol on his chest. “Do you think anything you do around here matters? You throw people behind bars for selling weed and picking pockets, but when the <em> real </em> villains show up, where are you?” <br/><br/>His mouth sets in a line. “I do whatever I can. Even if it’s something small, like walking a pregnant woman home to give myself peace of mind, knowing that I might have kept one person alive.” <br/><br/>The woman’s eyes bore into his, shielded behind his cowl, before she tears them away and starts walking again. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She reaches into her bag and takes out a carton of cigarettes. “You smoke?” She takes out a stick and slides it between her lips. <br/><br/>If Batman weren’t...well, <em> Batman, </em> his mouth would be hanging open. “I don’t think you should be doing that.” <br/><br/>“I’m a fucking doctor. I think I know what’s good for me and my baby.” She lights the cigarette, and Bruce wants so badly to grab the damn thing and grind it under his heel for the sake of her unborn child. <br/><br/>But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he keeps his fists clenched at his sides and continues to walk beside her. They pass a row of rundown apartment buildings with cracked windows and doors off their hinges. “How far along are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” <br/><br/>She blows out a plume of smoke. “Eight and a half months. So if you’re worried about me fucking up my baby, trust me, it can’t get any worse at this point.” <br/><br/>Bruce has no idea what to say to that. Doesn’t she care? Doesn’t she want the best for her child, for them to grow up safe and healthy and <em> alive? </em> How can a mother be so callous about the life of her own baby? <br/><br/>Before Bruce can launch into a lecture on parenting, a man sitting on the steps of the apartment building twenty feet ahead stands up when he sees them approach. “Where the hell were you, Sheila?” he demands. He’s wearing a ratty wife beater and holds a beer in one hand. <br/><br/>Sheila flicks her cigarette onto the curb. “Fuck off, Willis. I was at the drugstore.” <br/><br/>“With the <em> Batman? </em> Are you crazy?” <br/><br/>“He wouldn’t leave me alone. What was I supposed to do?” She shoots a glare at Batman. “See? Home sweet home. You can go back to whatever cave you crawled out of, now.” <br/><br/>Batman doesn’t let his expression change. “I have the numbers of a few officers I know who would be happy to walk you home if you ever need it. They won’t pry into your personal life but will ensure your safety.” He holds out a card. <br/><br/>Rolling her eyes, Sheila walks toward the apartment and flips him off over her shoulder. “Give it to someone who cares.” Willis tries to grab her arm when she reaches him but she shakes him off, walking up the front steps of the building by herself. <br/><br/>Willis follows, stopping to glance back once more at Batman on the sidewalk. “I’d better not catch you around here again,” he calls. <br/><br/>The door slams shut behind him.<br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/><br/>As it turns out, even costumed vigilantes with a child to raise have business responsibilities, whether they like it or not. Bruce doesn’t even technically <em>do </em>any work at Wayne Enterprises, given the country’s notion that “playboy Brucie Wayne” wouldn’t know a finance report from a frozen yogurt coupon. Which is, in fact, the whole point of the playboy persona.<br/><br/>And yet, here Bruce is, still getting called in to work. Lucius told him that there’s some kind of a merger meeting he needs to attend, being the CEO and all, but Bruce trusts him to handle it without any billionaire interference. So he hides out in the building’s lobby, sitting at the end of a row of leather chairs and finalizing some Justice League expenses on his laptop.<br/><br/>Bruce knows it’s pathetic of him to avoid a meeting, but there’s a crick in his neck from last night and a fracture in his rib which makes it hard to breathe, let alone sit through a meeting. Plus, meetings are boring. So fuck that. Bruce is content to stay here in this lobby with air conditioning, his laptop, and...a baby crying?<br/><br/>Bruce looks up. Why is there a baby crying? <br/><br/>He zooms in one a woman a few chairs down, consoling a wailing child in a stroller. He recognizes her: Janet Drake, wife of Jack Drake and co-owner of Drake Industries. She’s been an austere woman for as long as Bruce has known her, cold at times and more than aware of her own influence in Gotham’s highest society. He never imagined her as being the sort to willingly have a baby until now.<br/><br/>Janet is talking on her cell phone, the mouthpiece of which she covers to snap, “For the love of god, Timothy, will you be <em>quiet? </em>Mommy can’t deal with this right now.” Why she would make such an outrageous demand to an infant is beyond Bruce’s comprehension.<br/><br/>“Sorry about that,” she says into the phone. “Now, is there any way your agency can send someone to watch him for two weeks starting Monday? My husband and I are going to be doing some traveling and won’t have time to look after him ourselves. Yes, I know it’s short notice. Don’t you <em>dare </em>put me on hold—”<br/><br/>All the while, Tim cries.<br/><br/>“Excuse me,” Bruce says, leaning over and closing his laptop.<br/><br/>Janet looks over and her eyes widen. “Oh, Mr. Wayne. I’m—I’m so sorry about my son, I know he’s rowdy but the babysitter canceled this morning so I had to bring him with me. I was <em>supposed </em>to be upstairs with my husband negotiating a deal with your board right now.”<br/><br/>Oh. So <em>that’s </em>the meeting Bruce was supposed to be listening in on.<br/><br/>The baby, ignorant of their conversation, screeches for his mother’s attention. <br/><br/>Bruce doesn’t even think before he asks, “Would you like me to watch him for you? It would be no trouble.” <br/><br/>God, he’s an idiot. Of <em>course </em>she won’t leave her baby with a man whom she’s only met face-to-face once before. What kind of a mother would entrust her son with a practical stranger to take a phone call?<br/><br/>“Oh my god, would you?” Janet doesn’t hesitate to push the stroller closer to Bruce and stand up. “Thank you <em>so </em>much, Mr. Wayne. I won’t be a minute.” Without a hitch she’s back on her cell, demanding to speak to the manager as she leaves the lobby to continue in a quieter spot.<br/><br/>Well. That happened.<br/><br/>Dumbfounded, Bruce looks down at the baby—at <em>Tim, </em>who is still wailing like the world is falling apart around him. Fuck. This was a terrible idea. Bruce can count on one hand the number of times he’s held a baby in his entire <em>life, </em>let alone babysat one. <br/><br/>Nonetheless, he unbuckles Tim’s seat belt and lifts his itty-bitty body out of the stroller. There are tufts of black hair atop his head and his cheeks are soaked with big, fat tears. He kicks his feet which are covered by tiny socks the size of Bruce’s thumb. Christ, he’s so <em>small. </em>At no older than three months he’s dwarfed by Bruce’s large hands.<br/><br/>All at once Bruce is extremely aware of how fragile this little person is. A little person whom <em>Bruce</em> is now in charge of for the next however-long. How do parents cope with the knowledge that they have been tasked with keeping their tiny bundles of joy alive at all costs? This isn’t even Bruce’s own kid and he already feels the stress closing in.<br/><br/>Tim’s face is red as he cries, and Bruce can’t even<em> begin</em> to guess what it is he wants. He has half a mind to call Alfred for help, given that he’s never prepared a bottle or changed a diaper, or...well, anything. <br/><br/>Unsure of what else to do, Bruce settles Tim against his shoulder. “Shh,” he hushes him, rocking back and forth. “It’s okay, pal. You’re okay.” <br/><br/>Miraculously, it works. The baby’s cries die down to whimpers, and then nothing. You’d think the little guy hadn’t been held in his entire three months of life with how easily being snuggled and rocked soothes him. Bruce runs gentle fingers over the back of Tim’s head, smoothing over the wispy baby hair. He’s warm against Bruce’s chest, smells of baby shampoo and cotton.<br/><br/>Bruce pulls Tim back a little to look at him and finds two blue eyes staring right back, the sticky remnants of tears shining on his cheeks under the fluorescents and clumping his eyelashes. His eyes are ice blue, just like so many other newborns in the world, but Bruce has a feeling these ones will stay this perfect shade for good. <br/><br/>Tim stares at Bruce in an almost quizzical way, sharper than an infant’s gaze should be. It’s almost as if he’s thinking, <em>I don’t know who the heck you are, but it looks like we’re both stuck in this situation now.</em><br/><br/>“Your mother will be back soon,” Bruce finds himself saying despite knowing full well that Tim can’t understand a word of it. “So, if you could refrain from spitting up or crying again in the meantime, I would appreciate that a lot.” <br/><br/>Tim gurgles in response and gums on his fist.<br/><br/>“I’m not great with kids, but you probably already figured that out. And I’m only twenty-five so I don’t have any of my own, yet.” He chuckles when Tim gurgles again. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever want kids. Alfred keeps complaining about giving him grandchildren, but—” He bounces Tim a little. “I don’t think parenthood is for me.”<br/><br/>Understatement. If there is one thing Bruce has been sure of since that night in Crime Alley, it’s that he will never have children if he can help it. The world is too evil, too determined to sink its claws into every perfect soul and tear them to shreds. Bruce would never deliberately bring a life into the world, only for it to be destroyed.<br/><br/>Children die. Children get hurt. Children witness horrible things that they shouldn’t have to witness but are forced to anyway because innocence isn’t a lifelong deal. There are so many, <em>many </em>ways for a parent to lose a child: disease, poverty, car accidents, home invasions, leaving the stove on, letting them out of your sight for a few minutes, tripping on the sidewalk and getting brain damage, the list goes on forever.<br/><br/>Bruce doesn’t know how parents handle the stress of it all.<br/><br/>Tim reaches out with the hand not in his mouth to grab at Bruce’s nose. “God, you are cute, though.” As if Tim understands his own cuteness, his face blossoms into a breathtaking, gummy smile. Bruce had no idea babies could smile so early. <br/><br/>“You know,” he says after a quick glance around the lobby confirms there is no one within earshot, “most babies aren’t very fond of Batman. But you don’t seem to mind, do you? No, you don’t.” And Bruce most definitely is <em>not </em>using a high-pitched baby voice. Of course not.<br/><br/>Then Tim’s lips part in a wide yawn, his eyes scrunching shut. Bruce can’t help his smile and he brings the baby back to his shoulder. “Good idea, pal,” he whispers, rubbing one large hand over the back of the Winnie the Pooh onesie. “Take a nap. Your mom will come back for you soon.”<br/><br/>But as the baby’s warmth soaks into his shoulder and he feels the tiniest puffs of air against his neck as Tim falls asleep, Bruce thinks that he wouldn’t mind if Janet took her time getting back here.<br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/><br/>“One black coffee, please.” <br/><br/>“Coming right up,” Reggie says. He’s had this coffee cart parked here in front of the police department building since 2004, so Bruce has heard. In recent months, Bruce has taken to walking Dick to school and picking up a cup on his way back. It gives him something to look forward to in Gotham’s hellish November weather. <br/><br/>“How’s the kid doin’?” Reggie asks. “He had a mathletes competition this weekend, right?” <br/><br/>“Came in first place,” Bruce reports proudly. He takes out his cell phone to show off the pictures he got of Dick with that shiny gold medal. He must have taken a hundred photos that day, all saved in the “Dickie” folder in his phone. Bruce couldn’t be prouder of the kid if he tried. <br/><br/>He’s halfway through the video of Dick doing celebratory cartwheels at the ice cream parlor afterward when he hears yelling down the street. Bruce turns just in time for a small but solid shape to barrel straight into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. <br/><br/>His attacker turns out to be a little girl who stares up at him with wide eyes. She tries to run, but Bruce plants a firm hand on her arm. He’d put her age at around nine or ten years old, definitely of East Asian descent. Her clothes and hair are dirty, a perfect match to the countless citizens Batman has witnessed on Gotham’s grittier streets. A runaway, then. <br/><br/>A man pushes through the sparse sidewalk traffic toward Bruce and the girl, red in the face and <em> clearly </em> the source of the yelling if his rumbled curses are any indication. The girl tries to push past Bruce again but he holds tight, keeping her in place. Just until they sort this out. <br/><br/>“You fucking <em> brat,” </em> the man snarls. “You think you can just steal from my store and get away with it?” <br/><br/>“Hold on a minute,” Bruce says calmly, “I’m sure we can settle this.” <br/><br/>The store owner jabs a meaty finger at the girl. “She’s a fuckin’ thief! I could call the cops right now and have her ass sent straight to juvie.” <br/><br/>Bruce looks down again and sees the girl clutching a blue box as if her life depends on it. “Surely a box of Pop-Tarts isn’t worth a criminal record. She’s just a kid.” <br/><br/>“A kid who needs to learn some manners.” <br/><br/>Bruce reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Here’s fifty,” he says, handing the man a few bills. “I’m sure it’s enough to make this matter go away, right?” <br/><br/>The man looks between Bruce, the girl, and the cash for a moment before he seems to make a decision. With a lingering glare at the kid, he turns and stalks off back to his store, counting out his cash. <br/><br/>Now that he’s gone, Bruce returns his attention to the girl. She still hasn’t bolted yet, which he takes as a good sign. “I’m sorry about that. I’d lecture you on how stealing is wrong, but I understand that it’s hard to obey every rule when you’re born into few options.” <br/><br/>Just as he knows that, as the heir to the Wayne legacy, Bruce was born into the exact opposite. All the more reason it’s his responsibility to look out for those who weren’t as fortunate when it came to fate. You can’t control what you’re born into, whether that be money or something worse. And try as you might to change that, you might not succeed. <br/><br/>Control over one’s own life is a luxury few can afford, but Bruce has more than enough to cover the cost. <br/><br/>“If it’s food you need, I would be happy to buy you a hot meal,” he tells her. “I fund plenty of organizations and shelters around here that can ensure you and anyone you’re with will be taken care of. Or if you just want me to walk you home, I can do that too.” <br/><br/>The girl says nothing, but she’s not as panicked as she was before. The more Bruce talks, the further she relaxes, almost as if she can see right through him and detect the good intentions lying beneath his skin. <br/><br/>Bruce kneels down in front of her, trying to portray as non-threatening an image as possible. “Are you in any trouble? Do you have parents I can bring you back to?” Still no answer. “Or if you’re on your own, I know of a few places where you can get some proper food and a bed for the night.” <br/><br/>The girl just stares at him, uncomprehending. Does she not speak English? Bruce tries asking again in every Asian dialect he knows, but nothing changes. She can’t understand a word he’s saying. <br/><br/>Okay. This is going to be trickier than he thought. <br/><br/>Bruce sits back on his heels, trying to think. At the very least, one thing he knows for sure is that the girl’s threadbare sweater is nowhere near warm enough for this weather. And it <em> definitely </em> won’t get her through the winter. <br/><br/>Bruce slips off his own jacket. “Here,” he says, even though she has no clue what he’s telling her. He helps her into the jacket which swallows her, being fit for a grown man and not a malnourished child. “I have a hundred more of these at home, and you look like you could use it.” <br/><br/>“Want me to call the police to come pick her up?” Reggie asks. He jerks a thumb at the department building behind them. <br/><br/>Bruce shoots him his Wayniest smile. “No, thank you. I’d rather not bring the authorities into this unless absolutely necessary.” No <em> way </em> is he going to let this girl get swept up in Gotham’s system, shoving kids into juvenile halls and foster homes, only for them to end up back on the street a week later. <br/><br/>But Bruce lives in a mansion. He has plenty of food, space, money—it would be easy to look after this girl for a while. He knows Dick and Alfred wouldn’t mind the company, and maybe then Bruce can try finding out who she really is. If someone’s missing her, he can track them down. If not, then...who knows? <br/><br/>Bruce turns back to the girl. “What do you say to—” His eyes widen. The sidewalk in front of him is empty. <br/><br/>He just looked away for a <em> second. </em> How could she have vanished so quickly? <br/><br/>Bruce stands up and looks around, scanning the street for any trace of her. There’s nothing. It’s as if she disappeared into thin air. Bruce thought that was supposed to be <em> his </em> trick. <br/><br/>That night he keeps an extra eye out as he patrols the streets, scanning every alley and fire escape for a little girl in an expensive jacket. At the very least, he hopes she’s resourceful enough to pawn it. A jacket like that could get her three thousand dollars, easy. Enough to keep her going for a good while if she’s careful. <br/><br/>After hours of going through every database Bruce has access to for a single trace of her, he comes up with absolutely nothing. The girl is a ghost. He can’t imagine what kind of a life one would have to be born into to be completely alone with no medical records, no family, no missing person ads in the newspaper. <br/><br/>He hopes she’s okay. <br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p><b><br/><br/></b> When he wakes up, two things hit Bruce. <br/><br/>The first is a <em> killer </em> headache that throbs behind his eyeballs as if someone stuffed his head with rocks whilst he was sleeping. The second thing is that, for maybe the first time in his entire life, Bruce can’t remember what happened the night before. And that scares him. <br/><br/>He sits up groggily, the bedsheets pooling around his waist. His naked waist. Lovely. He rubs his aching temples as he becomes increasingly aware that this isn’t his bed, nor is it his room, nor is it anywhere he’s been before. The sheets are made of silk, the pillows soft as clouds. A kidnapper wouldn’t waste such lavish accommodations on a captive—not even a billionaire one—so that’s ruled out. <br/><br/>Bruce tries vainly to recall the night before, but his mind might as well be spaghetti, filled with only brief flashes of memory. He remembers a mission. Traveling. Fighting beside someone...Talia? <br/><br/>Bruce’s eyes snap open. <em> Talia. </em> He remembers her. Remembers being at her side, and then kissing her, and then… <br/><br/>His stomach churns. It comes back in flickers, images of lying with her, being kissed by her, touched by her. Talia. She used him for...what? To prove something? To prove to him that the great Bruce Wayne can be taken down a notch with a sedative and some coercion? His skin itches with the ghosts of her touch, clawing through flesh and digging into his heart. <br/><br/>How could he let this happen? He’s the goddamn <em> Batman, </em> yet he let his guard down, and this is the consequence. Being drugged out of his mind and forced into—into— <em> fuck. </em> This shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have let this happen. <br/><br/>Bruce does a quick scan of the room. It’s small but fancy, much to Talia’s tastes. Even in the early morning there’s heat from all angles, so at least she didn’t take him out of the desert. His Bat-plane should still be in its cave a few miles away; he can get out of here in no time. <br/><br/>The second relief comes when Bruce realizes that he’s the only one here. There’s no noise outside the tent, no lingering traces of Talia’s perfume. She’s long gone. Then Bruce’s gaze lands on a small white card resting on the pillow beside him. He picks it up. <br/><br/><em> Until next time, Beloved. </em> <br/><br/>Fuck. He wants to throw up. But there will be plenty of time for that later, when he’s safely back home and can deconstruct in peace. <br/><br/>He swings his achy legs over the side of the bed and leans down to pick up the scattered remains of his Batman ensemble, tossed carelessly during their...activities. <em> God, </em> he’s a fool. He should have known better than to let his guard down around an al Ghul, even Talia. And he gave her the satisfaction of taking advantage of that. <br/><br/>Swallowing his pride, disgust, and everything else, Bruce gets dressed in silence and makes a pact with himself to put this whole debauched night behind him. <b><br/></b> <b><br/></b> He just hopes it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass later.<br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/><br/>“I’m hungry.” <br/><br/>“Mm-hm.” <br/><br/>“I’m hungryyyyy.” <br/><br/>“I heard you the first time, Robin.” <br/><br/>“Then why aren’t you <em> listening?” </em> Jason is hanging off of Bruce’s bicep like a sloth in training, the edge of his cape brushing against the gravel rooftop. “I’m a growing boy, B. I need sustenance if you want me to make it to my sweet sixteen.” <br/><br/>“Technically, I could keep you on food paste and condensed milk and you could still make it to your sweet sixteen.” <br/><br/>Jason makes a face. “This is why you have no friends.” <br/><br/>Bruce rolls his eyes and checks his timepiece; it’s a little earlier than they usually end patrol, but it’s been a slow night. Especially considering they’re in the Narrows, this is a treat they would be foolish to pass up. He takes out a few dollars from his belt and hands them over. “Here. You can get us a couple of hot dogs from the cart one block over.” <br/><br/>“Why don’t you do it?” <br/><br/>“If you were a hot dog vendor, who would you rather sell to: the big scary Batman who breaks legs for a living, or a kid dressed like a traffic light?” <br/><br/>Jason snorts. “Two hot dogs it is, old man. I’ll make sure they put extra sauerkraut on yours.” With a wink, he leaps off the building to the awning below. <br/><br/>“If I find even a speck of sauerkraut I’m selling you to a pig farm!” Bruce calls after him. He shakes his head with a wry smile and activates his comm. “Alfred.” <br/><br/><em> “As I recall, you always liked sauerkraut growing up.” </em> <br/><br/>“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” He ignores Alfred’s dramatic gasp of betrayal. “We’ll be heading home in a little while, so you can go to bed.” <br/><br/><em> “I most certainly will not. What if a meteorite strikes you both while you are on the road? It’s only responsible that I stay up and ensure you don’t perish like a pair of martyrs.” </em> <br/><br/>Bruce chuckles. “Because everyone knows we’d be lost without—” A shout erupts from below. Bruce goes to the roof’s edge and spies on the street below, searching for the source. It’s a mugging; two attackers, one kid. <br/><br/><em> “What is it?” </em> Alfred asks. <br/><br/>“A meteorite. Talk to you in a minute.” <br/><br/>Bruce sticks to the rooftops, following the trio from above as they turn down a dead-end alley. The kid looks over his shoulder while he runs, not even realizing there’s a wall blocking his path until he slams into it. He drops the bag of change he was holding and scrambles to stay standing, turning with his back to the wall. <br/><br/>“Hand it over, kid,” says one of the muggers. Each holds a switchblade, pointing them at the kid. <br/><br/>The boy—short with dark skin and hair spiraling in all directions like a basket of curly fries—narrows his eyes. He kicks the bag away from them and picks up a garbage can lid, tossing it like a frisbee. It bangs off the chest of the closest guy and clatters onto the ground. <br/><br/>It would be an impressive move if it actually accomplished anything. <br/><br/>Batman picks that moment to intervene, throwing a baton and hitting the first guy in the back of the head, knocking him out cold. When the other panics and tries to run, Batman gets him down easily with a lasso around the ankles. Bruce stoops down to pick up the bag of money. <br/><br/>“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. <br/><br/>The kid’s eyes are as wide as saucers. <em> “Whoa. </em> You’re really him. Batman.” <br/><br/>“I like what you did with the trash can. But it would have worked better if you’d aimed for the head. Use whatever distractions you can while you figure out your next move.” <br/><br/>The kid smiles. “Don’t worry, Batman, I’ll get better after I buy the nunchucks I’ve been saving up for. Two dollars and nineteen cents. They’re made of plastic, I think, but it’s better than nothing.” <br/><br/>Huh. A fighter, then. “What’s your name?” <br/><br/>“Duke Thomas.” He scuffs his sneaker in the dirt, looking up at the cowl two feet above him. “I’d ask for yours, but I don’t think you’re gonna tell me.” <br/><br/>The corner of Bruce’s mouth quirks. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t listen if I told you to stay out of trouble?” <br/><br/>“Not even a little bit.” <br/><br/>“Fair enough.” He reaches into his utility belt and takes out a couple of batarangs. “Then maybe you’ll get better use out of these than some plastic nunchucks.” <br/><br/>Duke looks like he’s just been presented with a live unicorn. “Wait, you mean it? These are the real deal?” He holds them as if they’re something precious, diamond rings or fragile glass. <br/><br/>“I always have some lying around, and I want to make sure you can look after yourself.” He sets Duke with a stern look. “But no going out searching for danger, all right? Self-defense only.” <br/><br/>Duke’s eyebrows furrow. “Why not? You do it all the time.” <br/><br/>“Because you deserve to reach adulthood.” <br/><br/>“Yo, Batman!” a voice yells from above. Jason stands on a rooftop beside the alley, waving two hot dogs in the air. “Your dog is getting cold!” <br/><br/>Bruce turns back to Duke. “Do you live close by?” <br/><br/>“Yeah, my house is just down the street. I can get there fine on my own.” He puts the batarangs in his back pocket, careful not to nick his fingers on them. You’d think they were the greatest gift he’s ever received up until now, and maybe they are. <br/><br/>“Okay. Stay out of trouble, Duke.” <br/><br/>“Yes, sir!” Duke salutes him with a grin. “At least...I will until I see someone else getting messed with. Then all bets are off.” <br/><br/>In spite of himself, Batman chuckles. “Good kid.” He ruffles Duke’s hair. <br/><br/>“Who was that?” Jason asks when Bruce reaches him, passing over his hot dog. His own cheeks are already stuffed with meat and relish. <br/><br/>Bruce shrugs. “Just a kid.” And he takes a bite.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey hey hey if you were in Avatar would you be a waterbender, earthbender, firebender, or airbender? If you tell me your answer in the comments, a giant clown will appear in your bedroom tonight and give you a Klondike bar.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/">Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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